


brighter than sunshine

by countthestars



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, liam's a pretty minor character sorry, this is also really angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:01:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countthestars/pseuds/countthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Zayn’s come to trust Niall, and Harry by extension, more than he does most people. Niall had seen through the chinks in Zayn’s armor and had gotten under his skin with impressive quickness. There are still parts of Zayn’s life, though, that he doesn’t know how to share. </i>
</p><p> <i>Zayn’s learned to trust Niall with himself, he thinks, but he doesn’t know if he can trust him with the most important thing to him.</i></p><p>or; the one where Niall and Harry work in a bakery and Louis and Zayn are struggling to figure it all out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	brighter than sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Ziall is arguably the fluffiest of parings (beep beep boop! tender compliments! gentle touches!) so how I ended up writing 9k words of angst is beyond me.
> 
> title from the song of the same name by aqualung.

It’s not until someone coughs politely and Zayn looks up to see Harry’s apologetic face that he realizes how much time has passed. It’s grown dark outside, the sun long since set, and the streetlamps are illuminating little pockets of warm light up and down the street.

Zayn stretches his arms up, feels his muscles protest because he’s sat too long hunched over his keyboard, fingers pounding away.

“Sorry, Harry,” he apologizes. “I didn’t realize it’d gotten so late.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry says in that slow voice of his. “Looked like you were in the zone. We didn’t want to interrupt.”

Zayn ignores the way his heart kicks up a little at Harry’s word choice. “Niall still hanging around the back, then?” He asks, aiming for nonchalance.

Harry’s answering grin tells him that maybe he missed the mark a little. “You know he wouldn’t leave without saying bye. Besides, he had to finish up a batch of cupcakes for a last minute order.”

“Right,” Zayn says, already unplugging his laptop and packing up his bag. “Tell him I’ll meet him out back in a few?”

“You got it, chief,” Harry mock solutes him before resuming sweeping up the little shop. The open sign has already been flipped around and front door probably locked to deter any would-be customers. Slipping the strap of his bag over his shoulder, Zayn heads towards the back and out the employee’s only entrance.

There are some perks, he thinks, to spending most of his waking hours tucked up in the same booth in the little bakery, least of all getting to use the back door that’s not open to the general public. He likes nights like this best, when it’s just Harry manning the front and he can hear the familiar sounds of Niall in the backroom, occasionally swearing loudly when something goes wrong in the kitchen.

Harry and Niall are his not so secret favorites, and not just because they’ll sneak him free cupcakes and refill his tea when his eyes threaten to droop closed from too many hours of staring at the glare of his computer screen. He always has his most productive days when they’re both on duty, the words flowing easily from the scattered mess of his brain and onto the page in a way that actually makes sense.

He’s nearly halfway done with his latest novel and can’t remember having an easier time meeting his deadlines. His editor, Liam, has been absolutely ecstatic with his progress. He’s promised to buy stock in the little bakery if Zayn’s latest effort makes the Times Best Seller list.

Considering the modest success of his first two books, it’s a pretty lofty goal, but Zayn appreciates the sentiment. At least, during times he’s not feeling crushed by the paralyzing pressure of being an author and knowing that a flop could end his career before it’s really even begun.

Zayn lounges against the building as he waits for Niall, taking a cigarette from the carton he still keeps in his pocket and sticking it between his lips, but not lighting up. He’s been trying to quit, is the thing. Old habits die hard, though, and he finds comfort in the familiar ritual of shaking a cigarette loose from the pack, holding it between his lips, even if his body doesn’t get the nicotine its craving.

Besides, Niall would kill him if he caught Zayn smoking back here. There are strict regulations about being thirty feet from a building or some such bullshit before you can light up. Niall is one of the most carefree people Zayn’s ever met, but he almost makes up for it by how seriously he takes health code violations. Not that Zayn can really blame him, because he’s seen what a disaster Harry can be when he sets foot in the bakery’s kitchen.

Niall’s kitchen is his castle and he rules with an iron fist.

It’s only a few minutes longer before the back door opens and Niall steps out. He’s got flour in his hair, a usual look for him, and Zayn resists the urge to reach out and brush it away. Niall grins at him as he locks the back door and Zayn’s heart absolutely does not flutter.

“All right, mate?” Niall asks.

Instead of answering, Zayn just pushes off the wall, slipping the unlit cigarette behind his ear. In a spur of the moment decision, he offers Niall the crook of elbow. Giggling, Niall actually curtsies before curling his hand carefully around Zayn’s arm.

Normally, Zayn would bite his lip to keep from smiling at something so utterly ridiculous, but there’s something about Niall that makes him feel like he can let go of his carefully maintained control. Niall is little beams of sunlight that find the cracks of his façade and warm him up from the inside out.

They walk together in an easy silence until they reach the subway station, Niall’s hand clutching Zayn’s arm the whole way. Zayn’s flat is five stops from the bakery, but Niall lives only a block further than the station. It’s become a habit for them to walk this far together on nights Zayn’s stayed late to finish a chapter.

“Yeh comin’ back tomorrow then?” Niall asks, finally letting go of Zayn and stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Under the light of the streetlamp, Zayn can just make out the upward curve of Niall’s smile.

Zayn wishes he still smoked so that he’d have something to do with his own hands. He settles for crossing his arms over his chest. “Probably will, yeah,” he concedes.

There’s a gleam of teeth in the light as Niall’s smile widens. “Lookin’ forward ‘t it.”

Zayn smiles back, feeling inexplicably shy, before turning to walk down steps to the station. He tells himself it’s ridiculous to look back.

When he reaches the bottom, he looks back anyway. Niall is still standing at the top, smiling down fondly at him.

*

The sight of a pair of legs draped over the side of the couch greets him as Zayn lets himself into the flat. There’s a low moan of distress and someone who can only be Louis whines pathetically.

“Zayn. Please tell me you come bearing tea.”

“Sorry, mate.” He throws his keys in the little dish on the table by the door before crossing the living room to where Louis has flopped over the arm of the couch, legs dangling. He looks up at Zayn, his best kicked puppy expression on his face.

“I’ll die without tea, Zayn. I’ll die and you’ll have to live with the guilt of killing me. Is that something you really want on your conscience, hmm? Do you think you’ll be able to live with yourself?”

Zayn ignores Louis’ dramatics and settles down onto the couch next to him. It’s best not to give him a reaction, he’s learned over the years. Louis is like a bloodhound. If he senses a weakness, he’ll exploit it to his full ability.

Reaching for the remote, Zayn changes the channel from whatever weird historical documentary is currently playing.

“Hey,” Louis protests, “I was watching that.”

“Thought you were busy dying,” Zayn replies, still clicking through channels.

“I’m an excellent multi-tasker.”

Zayn ignores this and Louis wiggles around a bit, scooting up the couch until he’s got his head resting on Zayn’s thigh. Absentmindedly, Zayn buries his fingers in Louis’ hair and starts scratching at his scalp. Louis sighs with contentment and closes his eyes.

His best friend turned roommate is remarkably feline sometimes, Zayn muses. He half expects Louis to start purring.

There’s nothing good on, so Zayn changes it back to Louis’ documentary, the volume turned down low.

“How was your day, babe?”

“Mmm,” comes Louis’ sleepy reply. “Shit, mostly. It would have been better if someone brought me tea.” He opens his eyes up to glare at Zayn.

Zayn just flicks him in the ear.

“Ow,” Louis whines, sitting up like the actual human adult he is and rubbing at his ear. “Unnecessary, Zayn.”

“Aww, babes,” Zayn coos. “Want me to kiss it better?”

Louis bats his eyes at Zayn in a way that he probably thinks is coy but actually looks like he’s having a minor seizure. Zayn lets out a burst of laughter, his real laugh that he thinks sounds dumb but knows Louis won’t judge him for.

Louis, humanoid cat that he is, tucks himself into Zayn’s side and Zayn slips an arm over his shoulder in a gesture they’ve repeated so many times it’s like being struck in a rut. Louis stays silent, a rarity for him, and finally it’s Zayn that breaks the spell of tranquility that’s washed over them.

“I take it you didn’t get the call back.”

Louis doesn’t answer at first, just burrows a little deeper into Zayn’s side. “No,” he finally says, voice muffled against Zayn’s shirt.

Zayn sighs, rubs his hand soothingly up and down Louis’ arm.

“Their loss then, isn’t it?”

Louis doesn’t say anything else for a long while. Zayn just holds him tighter, knowing Louis needs the comfort of his embrace more than he needs sympathetic words.

“Do you ever think,” Louis says suddenly before cutting himself off.

“Think what?” Zayn prods, sensing this conversation is going to be more serious than their usual banter and bickering.

“Just, like.” Louis stops again, then turns and buries his head in the juncture between Zayn’s neck and shoulder. When he opens his mouth again, Zayn can feel his warm breath ghosting over his skin.

“What if I never get a call back, Zayn? How long can I keep holding out for my big break before it just gets pathetic?” He stops, swallowing thickly. “I’m sick of waiting tables. I’m sick of going to auditions, I’m sick of waiting for the phone to ring when it never does.”

It’s Zayn’s turn to stay silent. He knows Louis’ had moments of self-doubt before, worried that everyone who told him he’d never make it as an actor was right and that he’s been wasting his life, chasing a dream he’ll never reach. Usually he only says that kind of shit when he’s drunk and in the bright light of the following morning, it’s like the words were never spoken. His carefully built walls are back firmly in place, any doubts and insecurities hidden behind his manic smile.

“When do I throw in the towel and admit it’s never gonna happen, Zayn?” He lets out a sigh that sounds suspiciously like a sob. His next words are barely audible. “What the fuck do I instead?”

Zayn presses his lips to Louis’ soft hair and wraps his arms tighter around him. Louis clings to him like a lifeline, breathing growing more erratic as he struggles not to cry. Zayn starts talking, voice soft, wrapping his words around Louis like a cocoon. He tells Louis how brilliant, how talented, how loved he is. He keeps talking, his voice quiet and sure, until Louis’s breathing evens out and he relaxes against Zayn.

They both fall asleep like that, wrapped up in each other, an army of two against the world.

*

Zayn wakes up the next morning with a horrible crick in his neck from sleeping slumped over on the couch. Louis is gone, probably had an early shift at the restaurant, but he’s tucked a blanket around Zayn.

Checking his watch, Zayn groans. He needs to get in the shower, like, forty-five minutes ago if he’s going to make it to the store before heading over to the bakery. He’s been doing so well making his deadlines, but he had to keep re-writing bits of his latest chapter yesterday and he doesn’t want to fall behind.

With a wistful look towards the kitchen because there’s no way he has time to make tea, Zayn reluctantly heads to the bathroom to get ready.

He’d been through the roof when a publisher had finally accepted his first manuscript. Hanging up the phone with shaking hands, he’d call his mum first and Louis second. They’d celebrated with a bottle of champagne that was exuberantly expensive and tasted like shit, more drunk on the fact that Zayn’s dream of being an author had finally come true.

Then, on the heels of his hangover, came the contracts and legalities and an editor who could say more with his eyebrows than Zayn could with his entire face. Liam turned out to be a lot nicer once Zayn got to know him and Liam learned how to relax a little. Louis, of course, had been instrumental in helping him remove the stick that was perpetually in his ass.

They’d also talked finances. It turned out that a modestly successful debut novel from a minor player in the publishing game didn’t garner all that much profit. Zayn’s euphoria at getting to quit his job at the bookshop had evaporated, though he’d at least been able to cut back his hours to give himself more time to work on his sophomore novel.

His second novel, although by no means a best-seller, had generated something of a cult following. Zayn had even done a few local book signings that Liam had orchestrated. Despite the grim tone of his work, the median age of patrons had been about 13. They were also 95% female. Zayn thought maybe the book’s success had more to do with the author portrait Liam had insisted upon for the inside flap than his ability to write a compelling story.

When he’d drunkenly confessed this to Louis, Louis had taken Zayn’s face in his hands and kissed him sloppily on each cheek. “Zayn,” he’d slurred, “Zayny Zayn Zayn. Your cheekbones are promoting literacy. It’s a beautiful gift, mate.”

It was the oddest compliment he’d ever received, but it was comforting nonetheless.

Louis had that effect.

*

Zayn is close to finishing this chapter, but the right words are eluding him. He keeps replaying Louis’ words from the night before over and over in his head, his heart breaking when he remembers the gut wrenching hopelessness that colored his confession.

Zayn would still be working long days in that stupid little bookshop, selling other people’s words instead of writing his own, if it weren’t for Louis’ constant support and bitchy attitude forcing him to face his doubts and take action. He feels like absolute shit, like he let his best mate down, because he’s got no idea how to go about comforting him in return.

Lost in thought, Zayn jumps when Niall plops down in the seat across from him.

“Doesn’t look like yeh’ve been very productive,” he teases. “Haven’t heard the annoying sound of you pounding away on the keyboard at all today.”

Zayn shrugs.

Studying him critically, Niall finally nods decisively before scrapping his chair back and retreating behind the counter. He comes back a minute later, two cups of tea in hand, and slides one over to Zayn.

“All right,” he says. “Talk.”

Zayn’s come to trust Niall, and Harry by extension, more than he does most people. Niall had seen through the chinks in Zayn’s armor and had gotten under his skin with impressive quickness. There are still parts of Zayn’s life, though, that he doesn’t know how to share.

Zayn’s learned to trust Niall with himself, he thinks, but he doesn’t know if he can trust him with the most important thing to him.

“It’s just…” he starts, trailing off when the words won’t come.

Niall waits patiently, sipping at his tea, like he doesn’t have anywhere else in the world to be. Harry’s got the day off, so there’s someone, actually, like, competent manning the counter (though decidedly less charming), so Zayn guesses that Niall does have the luxury of taking an extended break.

It’s just as well, because the silence stretches on and Zayn doesn’t know how to fill it. It’s always been so easy with Niall, is the thing. There’s a Louis-shaped roadblock between them right now, though. Zayn doesn’t know how to go around it, if that’s something he even wants to do.

Eventually, Niall smiles, soft, just for Zayn. “Tell ya what,” he says. “I can leave Matt ‘t finish up here, it’s been dead all day anyway. There’s a pub just down the street. We can get a pint, talk about your feelings,” he winks ridiculously, teasing out an upward twitch of Zayn’s lips, “or we can get a lot of pints, and you can forget about it. What do yeh say?”

Zayn considers it for a moment before packing up his laptop. “Who’s buying?”

*

The problem, maybe, is that Zayn knows Louis better than Louis knows himself. They’d met the first day of kindergarten, bonding over a shared box of crayons and love for Power Rangers, and had been pretty much inseparable since.

When Zayn had decided to go to university, pursue an English degree and go for his dream of being a writer, Louis had followed him without a second thought. They’d roomed together throughout uni, Zayn spending more nights than not holed up in the library studying while Louis attended more parties than he did classes.

Zayn ended up with a degree and Louis ended up figuring out that he liked performing better than learning. Acting was the only thing he had any real passion for, so he set his sights on Hollywood lights and never looked back.

And that’s the problem, Zayn’s come to realize. Louis is resilient, tough in a way that Zayn could never hope to achieve. Under the surface, though, he’s one of the most vulnerable people Zayn’s ever known. Louis was able to brush off his past fuck-ups because he had never really cared in the first place. Being an actor was the first thing he’d really burned for, the first thing he wanted enough to make an effort to achieve.

Louis doesn’t know how to fail at something he’s actually tried for, and Zayn doesn’t know how to pick up the pieces when his best friend eventually comes crashing down.

Zayn doesn’t tell Niall any of it. He does let Niall buy him pint after pint, his offers to pay brushed aside.

Niall matches him drink for drink, his cheeks flushing redder with every pint and his braying laughter growing louder. He won’t let Zayn mope, keeps prodding him with teasing touches and stupid jokes that don’t make sense, but make Zayn laugh anyway, the real one he reserves for Louis.

Their drunken giggling is interrupted by the screech of a microphone being turned on. The crowd in the pub groans until the high pitched whine is shut off and an apologetic voice comes over the speakers, quieting the boos and announcing the start of open mic night.

Niall lifts a brow at Zayn, silently asking him if he’s going to sing something. Zayn pretends to push him off his barstool in answer. It turns into a tickle fight that Zayn would consider himself too dignified to participate in if he were more sober.

They finally break apart, gasping for breath and laughing.

Niall notices, then, how late it’s gotten and groans, moaning that he has to work the next day and blaming Zayn for his impending hangover.

Zayn just laughs as Niall drags him out of the pub and into the crisp night air. He shivers at the sudden temperature drop and reaches for a cigarette before remembering that he quit.

Niall crowds close, stumbling a bit into Zayn, and he realizes that maybe he’s feeling the alcohol as much as Zayn is.

He curls an arm around Niall protectively and his breath catches in his throat at how perfectly they fit together. He’s used to the contrast of Louis’ sharp angles and soft curves pressing against him, the way they slot together so seamlessly, as if they had grown up into the hollow spaces of each other.

It’s jarring, that Zayn can find that same symmetry in someone else. Niall is a solid and warm presence against him, squirming in his arms like he’s trying to crawl under his skin. He buries his cold nose in the skin beneath Zayn’s ear, his breath huffing warmly against his neck.

“Zayn,” he mumbles. “’m fuckin’ drunk.”

“I know, babe,” Zayn replies, the endearment slipping out before he can stop it. “Me too.”

They stand there, wrapped up in each other, as the city slowly goes to sleep around them. Finally Niall stirs, pulling away and shivering slightly. “Walk me home?” he smiles sleepily.

Zayn offers his arm and Niall tries to curtsy again, but this time his alcohol-heavy limbs make him stumble. He laughs loudly and Zayn can’t help joining in.

“I love it when you laugh,” Niall says breathlessly. “Your whole face lights up with it. Fuckin’ beautiful.”

Hoping the darkness hides his blush, he knocks his shoulder into Niall. “You’re drunk,” he teases. “Don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Do to,” Niall pouts. “You’re always beautiful. Just. Especially when you laugh.”

Zayn doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all. Niall’s used to his silences though, can read what Zayn can’t put into words in the lines of his body. Zayn doesn’t know how it happened, how this complete stranger wormed his way into Zayn’s life until he can’t imagine how things would be without him.

The thought is sudden and overwhelming and Zayn shuts it down before he can panic.

Instead, he walks with Niall in companionable silence, their shoulder and hips occasionally bumping as they stumble along. Zayn drops Niall off at his door, doesn’t think about the way he wants to kiss Niall good night.

*

When Zayn finally staggers home, the lights in the flat are all off.

Louis’ shoes are by the front door, but Zayn can’t hear any sound from his bedroom. He feels a rush of guilt, suddenly, that he was out getting drunk and left Louis alone after his near breakdown the day before.

He knocks softly on Louis’ door, in case he’s actually asleep. There’s only a slight delay, though, before Louis’ voice, muffled through the door, says “come in.”

Zayn slips into Louis’ room, into his bed.

They haven’t been anything more than friends since they were fifteen and nearly fucked everything up by fucking. It was the closest Zayn came to losing Louis, more than their dangerously co-dependent relationship could handle.

They’re still dangerously co-dependent, Zayn thinks, as Louis rests his head on Zayn’s shoulder and their breathing slows, synchronizing as they drift to sleep.

Zayn didn’t think it would matter, what he and Louis had. Never thought he’d meet someone who’d mean more to him than his best friend, someone who saw all his flaws and loved him despite it.

Until Niall came along, anyway, and threatened to capsize the whole thing.

*

It was after publishing his second novel and finally earning enough money that he could quit the bookshop all together that Zayn hit a rut.

Louis was still working crazy hours at the restaurant, a precarious balancing act with the numerous auditions he painstakingly scoped out and practiced running lines for. He was busier than Zayn had ever seen him, working towards his goal with a determination he didn’t apply anywhere else in his life, like he could catch up with Zayn through sheer force of will.

Zayn, meanwhile, found himself sitting on the couch day after day, laptop open and cursor blinking at him mockingly in a blank word document. It felt the cruelest twists of fate. He was finally free of the confines of hourly work, adhering to a schedule and holding in a scream at the monotony of it all. He could finally dedicate all his waking hours to his art, had nothing holding back from filling pages with his words.

Nothing, accept fucking writer’s block.

The freedom he always thought he’d have as an author turned out to be a fallacy, too. Liam would call him periodically, remind him of his deadlines and insist he submit a certain amount of pages to ensure he was on track.

Unable to cope, Zayn had turned off his phone and drank half a bottle of whiskey. Louis found him drunk and incoherent in the living room at three in the afternoon. After wrestling him into the shower, he’d put Zayn to bed without saying a word.

It wasn’t Zayn’s proudest moment.

The next day Louis told him in no uncertain tones that he was to leave the flat and not come back until he’d written at least a page in the little moleskin notebook he used to carry around in his uni days. He’d silenced Zayn’s protests, told him, “I don’t care what you write, I’m not gonna fuck grade it. Write a love poem to your own bone structure, it doesn’t matter. Just put words on the fucking page until they start to make sense.”

So Zayn had gone, notebook tucked under his arm. He spent most of the morning feeling miserable and hungover, wandering aimlessly like if he kept walking long enough he could leave all his insecurities and doubts behind.

It didn’t work because it was all in his head, anyway, but he spotted a cozy looking little shop and thought tea might at least help the throbbing in his temple.

A little bell above the door tinkled when he stepped inside and a curly-haired boy who was still growing into his gangly limbs offered him a charming smile from behind the counter. Peeking at the glass display near the register, Zayn realized the shop was a bakery. He ordered a cupcake he had no intention of eating because it seemed rude to just buy tea and settled down at one of the little tables in a corner.

Late morning light filtered through the window, making the blank pages of the notebook blindingly bright.

Zayn sat there sipping his tea until the mug was empty, then wrote an acrostic poem about cupcakes. He tried to decide what was more pathetic, getting shitfaced alone in his own living in the middle of the afternoon or breaking down crying in a bakery.

His pity party was interrupted by a large crash from the back room of the bakery, making him jump and smear a line of ink across the page. The crash was followed by a voice with an Irish lilt yelling out, “fuck, Harry, yeh can’t turn the mixer on unless the fucking bowl’s secured!”

Zayn couldn’t make out Harry’s reply, just the slow baritone of his voice.

Whatever he said must have been funny, because Irish let out a cackling laugh. “Oh, fuck off and clean this mess up. You’re worthless, Styles.”

Harry, who Zayn belatedly realized was the curly-haired boy who’d taken his order, emerged from the back room and grabbed a broom leaning against the wall. His hair was covered in flour and he met Zayn’s eyes with a sheepish expression on face. “Er, sorry. We didn’t realize anyone was still here. I’ll tell Niall to tone down the swearing.”

He disappeared into the back again, broom in hand.

A moment later, a boy not much older than Harry with bleached blonde hair stepped out of the back, hands on his skinny hips. He narrowed his gaze at Zayn.

“Oi. You the one that has a problem with ‘m swearin’?”

Zayn felt a bit alarmed. Irish, _Niall,_ he corrected in his head, wasn’t a big guy, but he looked scrappy. He could probably take Zayn in a fight. It would be surreal, he thought, to have a brawl in a cupcake shop, of all places. He paused to consider using it as a plot point in his novel before he remembered that he didn’t even have a plot yet.

His distress must have been written clear on his face, because Niall dropped his hands from his hips and hurried over. “Shit, mate, ‘m just fuckin’ with ya. Please don’t cry, I can’t stand it when people cry.”

It was the concern in Niall’s voice, utterly sincere despite not knowing Zayn at all, that made the lump in his throat suddenly difficult to swallow. “I’m not going to cry,” he was able to choke out, his words belied by the prickling of tears at the corners of his eyes.

Niall sat down across from him and took one of Zayn’s hands in between his own like they were friends. “Could be wrong, but I don’t think you’re getting emotional over ‘m swearin’,” he said. “You want to talk about it?”

This is unreal, Zayn thought, as Niall leaned over and peered into his empty cup of tea. “There’s your first problem right there,” he muttered before yelling out, “Oi! Harry! Bring us some tea, wouldja? Me and –“ he cut himself off looked at Zayn questioningly.

“Zayn,” he supplied.

Niall nodded, “Me and Zayn here are in dire need of a cuppa. And bring some of those little cupcakes, too, yeah?”

The words were barely out of his mouth when Harry brought them two fresh cups, setting them down on the table before clearing Zayn’s empty mug. He smiled warmly at Zayn as if this was all normal behavior for bakery employees. “You’ll be all right, yeah? Niall here can cheer anyone up.” He ambled back behind the counter, tripping once over absolutely nothing but his own too big feet.

Niall squeezed Zayn’s hand once reassuringly before releasing it, nudging one of the steaming mugs towards Zayn. “Drink up, mate. Harry’s absolute rubbish in the kitchen, but he makes a good cup of tea.”

Zayn doesn’t end up telling Niall what’s wrong, because Niall and Harry might be the friendliest people he’s ever met, but Zayn doesn’t let his guard down quite so easily.

He does, however, spend the entire afternoon in the shop, claiming the little table in the corner as his own. Niall and Harry both return to work, Niall grumbling about starting over on his batch of cookies and Harry weakly defending himself (“whole fucking bowl landed wrong side up in the middle of the floor, fucking flour everywhere. The kid is such a klutz, might have to ban him from the kitchen.” “Heyyyyy.”).

Harry had the radio turned to some station that played weird indie music, and the occasional sound of Harry and Niall’s bickering lulled him into a weird sense of contentment. Zayn started to write down some of their quips, just to have something to show Louis later, and realized only after he’d filled several pages that he’d been working in descriptions of the two boys.

It was nothing great and certainly not anything he could use for his novel, but. It was more words than he’d written in the last month.

He came back the next day and Harry greeted him like an old friend.

*

Zayn and Louis don’t talk about it.

Every time Zayn brings it up, Louis loudly and obviously changes the subject. He makes it clear that he doesn’t want to discuss it further, but Zayn notices that he doesn’t talk about auditions anymore, the pages listing various casting calls that usually litter the fridge noticeably absent.

Louis, too, is different. He acts more or less the same, still smiles and laughs, but it’s like he’s playing a role. His smiles don’t quite reach his eyes and the ring of his laughter is off, a certain fake quality to it that wasn’t there before.

Zayn knows that Louis is absolutely miserable, but he doesn’t have a clue how to fix it.

He’s never been more grateful for the bakery. It saved him when he was on the cusp of breaking down, succeeded in helping him overcome his writer’s block when nothing else would. Now it’s become a sanctuary, a safe haven he can retreat to when the weird vibe in the flat is too much for Zayn to handle.

Niall can tell something’s off, Zayn can see it in the concern reflected in his guileless blue eyes, the way his fingers linger on Zayn’s a little longer than necessary when he hands him his mug of tea. He doesn’t push, though, knows Zayn well enough that it’ll just make him clam up more.

It’s an uneasy truce Zayn has with both his boys, tiptoeing around the things he can’t say.

Of course, it takes almost no time at all before he fucks it all up spectacularly.

*

It happens like this.

Louis had a rare day off from the restaurant, spent it sitting in front of the telly watching crap TV, not even pretending at having emotions.

Zayn thought it was awful, listening to Louis’ insincere laugh and pretending that everything was fine, but.

It turned out that seeing Louis completely shut down was unbearable.

Zayn tried everything he could think of, but Louis shied away from his cuddles, shut out his words. Zayn made him tea, exactly the way he liked it, and Louis thanked him absently before curling deeper into himself on the couch.

The tea went cold, untouched, and Zayn, coward that he was, fled to the bakery, unable to take another minute in the suffocating atmosphere of the flat.

Niall, beautiful, bright, wonderful Niall, knew that something was wrong the moment Zayn stepped through the bakery’s door, the little bell tinkling merrily. He shouted at whoever was on duty – looked like Matt again – that he was leaving early, don’t fuck anything up, and dragged Zayn bodily out the door.

Zayn thought maybe Niall would take him to the pub, get him drunk again, and how nicely the alcohol would numb his brain. They went straight past the pub, though, and didn’t stop until they reached Niall’s flat. Niall paused only long enough to unlock the front door and before he could really process what was happening, Zayn was standing in the middle his living room.

Rationally, Zayn knew that Niall didn’t live in the bakery. Knew he had this flat, his own little pocket of the world that he called home. The bakery, though, had a warmth to it that contrasted so much with the coldness that had crept into his own flat, that Zayn had sort of forgotten no one actually lived there..

This flat was undeniably Niall’s, from the pictures of friends and family in mismatched frames that adorned the walls to the guitar placed carefully in a stand in the corner. Of course Niall played guitar, that was so _Niall_ , and Zayn felt a wave of emotion roll over him.

Niall had let him in without a second’s hesitation, into his bakery, into his flat, into his life. He’d already given Zayn so many parts of himself, but Zayn, selfish bastard that he was, wanted more.

He turned to Niall, who was standing on the threshold to the living room, watching him with calm eyes. Zayn stalked over to him, feeling like a predator, but Niall didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed steady as Zayn dropped his eyes to Niall’s pink lips, the slight hitch in his breath the only sign he was affected at all.

That was what did Zayn in, in the end. Niall had turned out to be Zayn’s rock, but Zayn wanted to smash him to pieces. He crashed into Niall, kissing him frantically, teeth clacking. Niall took it without complaint, grabbing hold of Zayn and kissing him back, softer, until they found an easy rhythm, slow and steady.

It was always so easy with Niall, was the thing.

Niall took Zayn to bed, undressed him with a reverence that left Zayn trembling. He came apart under Niall’s talented fingers and clever mouth, gasping into the sheets and grasping at sweat-slicked skin.

Afterwards, as Niall lay next to him, mouth open and snoring, Zayn stared up at the cracks in the ceiling, wishing for a cigarette.

*

Zayn can’t write.

He’s been staring at the blinking cursor, knows that he’s so close, so fucking close to finishing this book, but the words won’t come.

Groaning in frustration, he shuts his laptop before grabbing the pack of cigarettes on the table. He lets himself out of the flat and into the crisp air, cigarette already between his lips.

He lights up with shaking fingers and feels relief as he breathes in, the nicotine like a salve to his soul.

Louis will be mad when he finds out that Zayn’s started smoking again. Or. A month ago, he would have been. The Louis-shaped robot that Zayn lives with now probably won’t care at all. Zayn closes his eyes, focusing on the familiar sensation of smoke filling his lungs. He thinks of burning little cigarette holes in all of Louis’ favorite shirts, just to see if Louis will react, show any reaction at all.

It’s been a week since he let Niall fuck him, a week since he set foot in the bakery, longer since he last heard Louis laugh.

It’s been six days since he’s been able to write, four since he took up smoking again.

Zayn flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette, watches the red hot flickering of an ember that floats carelessly to the ground before it’s snuffed out.

*

Liam starts calling Zayn incessantly. It’s the one thing Zayn saw coming, and he’d be thankful for it, that something in his life is steady, constant, but he doesn’t have the answers to the questions he knows Liam will ask.

Zayn’s stalled, hit a roadblock he can’t overcome, and instead of facing his mess like an adult, he goes to bed and doesn’t get up other than to eat or piss and occasionally, smoke.

There’s a knock on his bedroom door around day three or four, Zayn’s lost track, and Louis pokes his head in. This is not something Zayn saw coming, but he can see the way that Louis’ brow is furrowed in annoyance and he’s thankful, so utterly grateful that his expression is anything other than its usual blankness he could cry.

“What the fuck are you doing, Zayn?”

Isn’t it obvious? “Nothing,” he mumbles.

“I can _see_ that. I meant, why the fuck are you doing nothing when your deadline is so close?”

Oh, Zayn thinks. Liam must have gotten desperate enough to call Louis. Liam can be a sneaky bastard, sometimes.

Louis stalks over to the bed where Zayn is still cocooned under his covers and rips them off brusquely. Zayn instantly curls up, a useless defense against the sudden cold air, and says, “what the fuck, Lou.”

“Get. Up.” Louis growls. “Get out of bed and take a fucking shower. Your odor is actually offensive.”

Zayn would protest, but Louis’ actually right. He doesn’t move, though. The shower’s so far away and Zayn can’t think of a single reason why it’s worth it to make the effort. Instead, he buries his head in the pillow, wishes that maybe it’ll suffocate him and then he won’t have to deal with anything ever again.

It’s one of the more melodramatic thoughts he’s ever had. He really doesn’t care.

“No?” Louis asks when it becomes clear Zayn has no intention of moving. “Just gonna lay in bed all day then, hmm? Throw away your fucking dream, which at this point is sitting there for you on a fucking _silver platter_ , my god, because you can’t handle having a little crush?”

Louis throws the words at Zayn and it’s like a bucket of ice water hitting him. He sits up, meets Louis’ unforgiving stare.

“What are you talking about?” he asks dangerously.

Crossing his arms over his thin chest, Louis lounges back against the doorframe, the picture of casual contentment. Zayn can see the way the muscle in his jaw is ticking, though, as he grits his teeth and knows it’s just an act.

Zayn knows Louis too well, is the problem. And Louis knows Zayn even better.

“Got a call from Liam, didn’t I, wondering why you won’t return his messages? Last he heard, the book was going great, that little bakery of yours was – what did he say? – a real inspiration for you.”

Zayn feels cold. He never told Louis about the bakery. Didn’t want to jinx it, at first. Didn’t know how to confess he’d been keeping a secret, after a while.

Wanted, selfishly, to keep something just for himself.

“I didn’t know that’s where you’d been disappearing off to. I never asked, and maybe that’s my fault. You play your cards so close to your chest, Zayn.” He pauses, a deliberate move, and Zayn’s finger unconsciously clench his sheets. When he continues, his voice is softer and Zayn has to strain to catch the words. “I went to visit your little bakery. It certainly is charming, isn’t it?”

Zayn feels his heart thudding dully in his chest, Louis’ next words like knives. “Not nearly as charming as the Irishman in the back though, is it? He’s just your type, love.”

“Don’t.” The word is forced out between clenched teeth.

Louis’ eyes glitter maliciously. “Believe me, Zayn, I wish I didn’t have to. But you’re throwing everything away, for no bloody reason! You want to lay in bed, pining away because you can’t have everything you want? Pissing away your fucking dream, because you’re hung up on some twinky pastry chef?”

“He’s not just some fucking pastry chef, oh my god, Louis. Niall is, I don’t, _fuck_.” Zayn jerkily scrubs his hand through his greasy hair.

“You love him,” Louis breathes, eyes wide at the realization.

“ _No_ ,” Zayn says adamantly. “But… I could. It’d be so fucking easy.”

Louis crosses the room and sits down on the bed next to him, his earlier anger evaporating instantly, and stars rubbing a hand over his back. “Shit, Zayn,” he sighs. “You can’t do this to yourself. You can’t do this to _him_.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” Zayn whispers. And it’s true. He doesn’t know how to love without consuming, how to be anything other than a train wreck.

He doesn’t know how to survive without Louis there, always picking up the pieces.

They sit there in silence for a long while, Louis’ hand never stopping its soothing rhythm on Zayn’s back. Finally, Louis breaks the spell that’s washed over them. “I’m leaving, Zayn.”

Zayn jerks, panic flooding him, but Louis squeezes his shoulder reassuringly. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean like… just for a few days. A week, maybe. I’m going home, going to visit my mum and sisters.”

“Of course, Lou. That’s... I think that’d be really good for you,” Zayn offers.

“Yeah,” Louis smiles softly. “I need some space, I think. Away from this flat, you know?” He swallows. “I need to figure some shit out, Zayn, and I think I need to do it away from you.”

The words sting, but Louis softens them with a soft kiss to Zayn’s forehead. The thing is, Zayn understands.

He knows Louis better than Louis knows himself.

And maybe that’s exactly Louis’ problem.

“I’ll be in touch, yeah? And I don’t want to find your mummified corpse in here when I do come back, so get it together, okay?”

“Okay,” Zayn promises. He can do that. Probably.

Louis squeezes him one last time before getting up. Zayn can hear him puttering about the flat, finishing up his packing, and then the front door opens with a loud creak, closes with a soft click.

Then there’s nothing but silence.

Zayn gets really drunk in the living room, but this time there’s no one to put him to bed.

*

Zayn wakes up, hungover and miserable, and Louis isn’t there. He gets in the shower, washes off the filth he’s accumulated on his skin during his pity binge, and stays under the stream of water until it runs cold.

His sheets, he realizes, are absolutely disgusting, so he strips the bed and ends up doing three loads of laundry. The rest of the flat is in a similar state of despair and Zayn digs out their infrequently used cleaning supplies, scrubbing and dusting until the place is spotless.

The flat is cleaner than it was the day they moved in, but Zayn still has a restless itch under his skin. He hasn’t looked at his laptop other than to move it out of the way while he actually dusted the table, but it’s been at the back of his mind all day.

Ignoring his computer, he decides it’s time to do something else that he’s been putting off and grabs his phone from where it’s been charging while he cleaned. He ignores the missed calls and messages, scrolling through his contacts until he reaches the right name.

Taking a deep breath, he holds the phone to his ear as it rings, once, twice, three times.

Finally, someone picks up and a voice exclaims, “Zayn! I was beginning to think I’d never hear from you again.”

“Sorry, Liam,” he apologizes. “I hit a bit of a rut. D’you want to meet somewhere for coffee? I want to talk some things over with you.”

“Of course! Name the place and I’ll meet you there.”

They confirm the details and Zayn clicks off.

Louis was right. Zayn can’t stay in bed all day and throw away his dream. It’s time that he act like the adult he claims to be, go meet his editor to work through his writer’s block and get back on track.

Zayn grabs his laptop, tucking it under his arm, and locks the flat behind him before heading out to meet Liam at Starbucks.

*

The day Zayn finishes the novel and sends his final draft off to Liam, he gets a call from Louis.

“I’m finally coming home, mate,” he laughs, and Zayn can hear how _real_ it sounds, even through the shitty phone connection.

‘A week, maybe,’ had turned out to be closer to a month and half.

It had been hard, at first. Even after meeting with Liam, talking through the finer points of the plot and figuring out how to work around the place he’d gotten stuck, Zayn struggled to get the words to translate from his head to a page in way that made sense.

As usual, the flat left him feeling uninspired, and he tried out no less than fifteen different coffee shops, but none where the same as the little bakery that had staked a claim in his heart. He stuck with it, though, filling the pages until he had a complete story, something he could present to Liam to polish off and publish.

He had been worried that without the work to distract him, his traitorous brain might think about a certain blonde pastry chef, and the way Zayn had fucked it all up by running away before it really even began.

Now, though, Louis is coming home. Zayn could cry from happiness.

“Actually, scratch that.” Louis continues, “I _am_ home. Come open the door?” Zayn yelps, dropping the phone and scrambling to the door, opening it to reveal Louis standing there, shit-eating grin on his face and arms weighed down with bags. He drops them when Zayn smothers him in a bear hug, their arms tangling around each other.

“Missed you,” Zayn whispers into Louis’ hair.

“Missed you more,” Louis whispers back.

*

They catch up over tea, Louis entertaining Zayn with stories of his little sisters’ hilarious exploits and the heart to hearts he had with his mum. Louis’ eyes are glowing with happiness in a way they haven’t in a while and it makes Zayn’s heart ache in the best way.

He’s drunk on happiness for his best mate when Louis informs him that he’s figured some things out. “I mean, I really love kids, you know? And we did some research, my mum and I, and I can probably make more money nannying than I ever did waiting tables.”

“That’s great, Lou. Seriously, any family would be lucky to have you.”

Louis smiles into his mug at the compliment. “Who knows? Maybe someday I’ll go back to school, get a teaching degree. Someone’s got to teach those little shits the art of drama.” He grins at Zayn over the edge of his mug, showing off his pointy canines. “After all, those who can’t do, teach.”

They both laugh at that and Zayn thinks if Louis can joke about his failure so easily, he’s really going to be okay.

When Zayn eventually admits that he’s finished his novel only this morning, Louis smacks him. “What the fuck, you wanker, why didn’t you tell me! God, we’ve been sitting here drinking tea when we should be out _celebrating_.”

Zayn points out that it’s only 3pm, but Louis waves him off, phone in hand, texting someone rapidly. His phone vibrates a moment later and Louis’ eyes scan the screen, his smile growing.

He looks up at Zayn. “Can the celebration wait until Friday? There’s a bar my mate recommended and they’ve got an open mic night.”

Zayn agrees, can’t say no to Louis when he looks so fucking pleased, and pushes the memory of the last time he went to a bar for open mic.

Whatever. There’s no way it’s the same pub, and it’s not like Niall will be there.

Even if he was, it wouldn’t matter. Zayn hasn’t spoken to him since that night. There’s no doubt Niall hates him.

It was just too easy for Zayn to fuck up beyond repair.

*

They arrive at the pub Friday already buzzed. Zayn’s first surprise of the night is bumping into Harry, who turns out to be the mate that recommended the pub to Louis. Harry greets Zayn a little coolly, which is more than he deserves but hurts nonetheless.

The first chance he gets, Zayn drags Louis off and whispers furiously, “Since when are you and Harry mates?”

Louis blinks up innocently at him and Zayn tightens his grip on Louis’ bicep hard enough to bruise.

“Oh, piss off, I met him the day I went to visit your little bakery and we hit it off. Just because you insist on beating happiness off with a stick if it so much as looks your way doesn’t mean I have to.” Louis rolls his eyes.

It’s rare that Louis is intentionally cruel, but he has a careless way with his words sometimes that makes them wound all the more. He sees the look on Zayn’s face and hastily backtracks. “Fuck, Zayn, I didn’t mean that –“

“Don’t worry about it,” Zayn cuts him off. “You deserve to be happy, yeah?”

“No more than you do,” he replies softly.

Zayn swallows. “So. You and Harry, then?”

Louis shrugs. “Dunno yet. Could be something. Haven’t met anyone besides you that it’s really mattered.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says. He understands. “Don’t fuck it up, Lou.”

“Could say the same to you,” he mutters, pulling Zayn back into the crowd before he can question what that’s supposed to mean. “C’mon, I wanna watch the show. Harry said there’d be some talent on stage tonight.”

Zayn nurses a beer, watching the makeshift stage from the back of the bar. Harry and Louis are next to him, flirting outrageously. Louis seems to take particular delight in making Harry laugh obnoxiously loud, his smile growing fonder every time Harry claps a big hand over his mouth to muffle the sound.

 _Could be something_ , Zayn thinks, snorting into his pint. Louis’ not usually one for an understatement, but seriously, it’s like there’s a glowing neon sign over their heads.

He gets it, though. They haven’t been able to do much more than text each other over the past month and it can be overwhelming, being around someone who just gets you from the start.

Zayn’s starting to think it might be a good idea to sneak out after he finishes his drink, leave the newlyweds to their bliss, when the next act takes the stage.

He nearly drops his half-full pint, his mouth gaping. “Louis,” he hisses, “tell me you did not plan this.”

Both Louis and Harry look over at him, the guilt on Louis’ face a clear answer. Harry, however, has the most serious look on his face Zayn’s ever seen. “You walk out that door, Zayn, and I swear to god I will never forgive you. I didn’t want any part of this plan, but Niall insisted.”

Zayn snaps his mouth shut, looking back at the stage where Niall has settled onto the stool, holding his guitar reverently on his hands. He finishes adjusting the mic, greets the crowded pub with a cocky grin, “Yeh doin’ all right out there?”

His eyes scan the crowd until he spots their little group. He pins Zayn with his stare, making him feel like a bug under a microscope. “This one’s dedicated to someone very special ‘t me.”

Niall looks away then, concentrating on his finger placement as he starts strumming the opening chords. Zayn feels his heart stutter in his chest when Niall starts singing, his voice sweet and clear, cutting through the cacophony of sounds in the crowded pub.

Closing his eyes, Zayn lets Niall’s voice wash over him, concentrating on the lyrics he’s crooning softly into the microphone.

_I know you haven’t made your mind up yet,_  
 _But I would never do you wrong._  
 _I’ve known it from the moment we met,_  
 _No doubt in my mind where you belong._

Zayn’s paralyzed, rooted to the spot, couldn’t flee even if he wanted to. The song ends and the spell Niall’s cast over the pub shatters, the crowd cheering loudly.

Grinning, Niall bows theatrically before exiting the stage, disappearing momentarily to some backroom Zayn didn’t notice before. He emerges a moment later, guitar no longer in hand, and winds his way through the horde of people until he reaches their little group.

Harry gives him an enthusiastic hug and smacking kiss on the cheek and Louis congratulates him on a great performance.

Suddenly, then, they move aside and there’s no one between Zayn and Niall at all.

Zayn’s heart is thudding so loudly in his chest he’s surprised no one else can hear it. Maybe Niall can, though, because he steps closer, smiles, soft, just for Zayn.

“Hey,” he says.

“I’m sorry, Christ, I’m so fucking sorry,” Zayn blurts out.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Niall soothes, gripping him by the shoulders and tugging him closer. “It’s okay, Zayn. It’s okay.”

“It’s _not_ , though. I just, god, I fucked up. You were perfect and I got scared and shit, Niall.” He closes his eyes, leans close and lets his forehead rest against Niall’s. “It was so easy, what we had. _Nothing’s_ that easy.”

Niall laughs quietly, resting his hands on Zayn’s hips. His thumbs sneak under the hem of Zayn’s t-shirt, rubbing circles on his heated skin.

“That’s your problem, Zayn. You make everything so much harder than it needs to be.” He kisses the corner of Zayn’s mouth. “Let me in, Zayn. ‘m not gonna hurt ya.”

Zayn feels his resolve crack at Niall’s words and he lets his arms snake around his middle, tugging him so close he’s not sure where he stops and Niall begins.

It’s terrifying, he thinks, just how easy it would be to let Niall in, let him see all the secret places Zayn tries so hard to hide. The truth, though, is that Niall’s already seen them all. He already knows Zayn’s a mess of a human being, that he covers his insecurities with a layer of calculated aloofness, even knows Zayn’s stupid laugh when he finds something genuinely funny.

The thing is, Niall’s already got the power to hurt him. Maybe someday he will. Right now, though, Niall just wants to make him happy.

And maybe Louis’ right.

Maybe Zayn deserves to be happy.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The song Niall sings is "Make You Feel My Love" originally by Bob Dylan, also covered by Adele.
> 
> This is a little different from how I normally write; feedback is always appreciated!!


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